


Lost In Dixon Nation

by Danyzilla



Category: Oirignal Female Lead, The Walking Dead, daryl dixon - Fandom, zombies - Fandom
Genre: Action, Adventure, Erotica, F/M, M/M, Romance, post apocalyptic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 23:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13581606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danyzilla/pseuds/Danyzilla
Summary: [Non-Con/Rape is flashback based and non detailed for less trigger material!!!]After running with Merle Dixon for weeks before he left me bare naked and supplyless on the floor of a biker bar, I stepped out on my own. Three weeks have passed. Three weeks of me circling my empty family home, my heart still too near to grief to enter the place.Until an upheaval of what little peace I had forces me on a journey I never thought I’d be on. Lost in a nation looking for a man I never wanted to see again with his asshole younger brother. Why, you ask? I may very well find refuge along the way.





	1. 01

**Author's Note:**

> Original characters are mine, I do not claim ownership over any of the Walking Dead.

I had to admit it was a less than intelligent idea to fold up a tarp to sleep on in this empty garage. But god Damn it I was sick of bare concrete every night. I felt comfortable in garages and closed spaces I could rig with clinging pop cans and barbed wire to alert me when one of the dead walked my way. That’s right. The dead. Satan’s spawn. The apocalypse. The horsemen have risen. Life had changed. Four months ago was the official admission of worldwide failure for a cure. Our president had been murdered in the mayhem by we the people. I guess crazy is as crazy does. 

I stretched out from tarp I laid on and it made a god awful crunch beneath me that echoed throughout the empty garage. I swore I heard the jingle of one can against another and I reached for my sawed off shotgun. Another reason I closed myself in a corner. Shotgun stagger to these creeps gave me time to charge through them and onto my Jeep parked behind the house I’d raided. Empty of course, minus the murder suicide of three children and a single father collapsed into his master bedroom with a bloody scrawling on the wall that asked God for forgiveness. 

My back still ached from the brutal beating I’d been subjected to just three days ago, when a man named Merle Dixon bombarded me with his biker gang and proceeded to use me as they saw fit. Who knows how long it’d been since they saw a woman. They left me weaponless and naked on the floor of some filthy bar. No further details needed; they got what they wanted and left me for dead. My left eye black from being knocked out by the butt of an assault rifle, and my emotions black and blue from being used as.. as.. well. 

God. A dead dream, or a vengeful father, who the fuck knew anymore. I made another unwise decision to pop open a can of preserved green beans that snapped with the releasing pressure. I heard a snarl, right outside the aluminum garage door. Fuck me. I waited, and again another bang. Then another. Several sets of hands hit the door while they groaned and snapped for whatever had their attention. In that case, me. 

Or so I thought when the empty can rig I had set up in front of a closed door snapped and rattled fiercely as the door burst open. A man swung in and shut the door quickly before even noticing me on a bright orange tarp in an empty room. When he turned to face me, my shotgun was already pointed at his chest. Bloody flannel and ripped up jeans and lazily tied combat boots donned him. But when we made eye contact I was taken aback by the brilliant blue eyes engulfing me. Shaggy dark dirt blonde hair did nothing to accentuate his eyes, but his iceberg orbs were enough to hold my attention. Though they were set in one hell of a pissed off face, he slung a crossbow up and aimed square at my skull. 

“No car, thought this place was empty. Fuck!” He snarled.   
“It’s not. The hell you want around here, hillbilly. Atlanta isn’t for country folks.” I snapped back.   
“Hand over those cans of veggies.” He demanded.   
“Over my dead body.” I cocked my shotgun. 

The banging started on the door the man had just come into. 

“You let them IN?!” I hissed, standing and glaring into the mans eyes with pure dissatisfaction. “You must be fucking stupid.”  
The man puffed his chest at me and I swung. Right fist to the gut and he hit a knee. Pre-shit hitting the worldwide fan, I was already combat trained. 

We lost the concentration of a fight between us living when the dead began to bang on the door that connected the house to the garage. Luckily, a second door led outside. Right where I’d parked Ol’ Red. I grabbed my shotgun, bag full of preserved food, and booked it for the door. I heard metal clanking and felt the crossbow pressed to my back. 

“Give me your food.” A growl rose from the man behind me.   
“Go to hell.” I said calmly, swinging the heavy shoulder bag around and knocking his crossbow across the garage and watched it slide along the floor. Just then, a hoard of walkers broke through the door from the house. The man dove for his crossbow and landed with it in his hands, laying on his back, and fired a bolt right into the head of a dead woman. The sickening sound was something I didn’t think I’d ever get used to. 

God damnit. I was watching him reload, knowing full well his gut was wrenching from both hunger and a deck hard enough to make anyone vomit. The human woman in me wasn’t quite the beast of the people I’d met since this began. 

“What’s your name?” I asked, opening the door to the backyard.   
“Fuck you!” He spat.   
“Either you tell me your name and I’ll get your sorry ass out of here or I leave you to them!” I pointed at the ever breaking door. 

The man cursed over and over so fast I couldn’t catch it all, but he scrambled to his feet and made a break for the door I held open. He saw the Jeep, and caught on quicker than I thought some hick would. His accent alone was enough to make me think he’d never made it out of a cabin in his life. 

He jumped in, passenger side, I followed into the driver seat and cranked the keys I’d stupidly left in the ignition. I floored her, busting through a six foot tall wooden fence and out into some suburban back street. Not just any street. My street. My parents home. Which I’d been circling for days, afraid of the emptiness I knew I’d find inside. 

“Name?” I repeated, my mind avoiding the subject once again.   
“You first.” He said with a little bit of resolve, a calmer tone, though it seemed forced.   
“Charlotte Reynolds.”  
“Daryl Dixon.”

I slammed on the brakes so hard, I’m pretty sure both of us had whiplash and now Merle’s long lost little brother had a broken nose.


	2. 02

“The fuck is your problem?!” A snarl ripped from Daryl as he scrambled for an oily red handkerchief in his back pocket. Hey, at least I hadn’t broken any teeth.   
“Get out of my fucking car.” I said between clenched teeth. It took moments of silence before Daryl grasped what I’d been hiding.   
“Y’know Merle.” The emotion in his voice completely differed from that of his brother when he’d asked someone else at the bar I’d been assaulted and left for dead at. Daryl was a pawn to him. But Merle was worth loving to Daryl. I pitied the man. 

“I don’t know where he is now.” I admitted.   
“Tell me where he is!” Daryl growled. Obviously truth didn’t come easy to the guy. “So help me god woman I’ll—“  
“Beat me? Rape me? Steal my rations and weapons and fuck over the promise of finding an evac station in this god forsaken world?” I was staring at Daryl with cold eyes. Reality struck him and I swear to God the man was about to apologize. 

Instead I started Ol’ Red and was left with my last option in this city to sleep, eat, even shower. Home. I may be in my mid twenties but the house I grew up in has always been home compared to my one bedroom apartment in Kansas City. Pulling around the corner and onto a slightly slanted concrete driveway. Handprints and dates no longer meaningful scattered across the sidewalk leading up to the house. 

“Parents house. Safest place in Atlanta.” I said quietly.   
“How do you know they ain’t in there ready to bite your face off?” Daryl said, but I heard him suck in a breath.   
“They were in the Caribbean last time I heard from my mother. Months ago.”

And that was the end of that. I scanned the yellowing yard, peeking through our neighbors fence, their dog mangled and eaten. Walkers were here once upon a time. They still might be. 

“Daryl. Watch my back.” 

I heard him scoff, but he did anyway. He threw his bloody handkerchief in the backseat and I didn’t care, I’d seen worse. I stepped out of the Jeep, shotgun in hand, and closed the Jeep door quietly. I kept a spare house key in the Jeep at all times in a magnetic box above the drivers tire. 

“Fuck,” Daryl hissed. “Y’better hurry up with that door, woman.”

I was about to tell him to shut his mouth, I was working on it, but I caught sight of a herd of the walking dead through the neighbors fence. First a few, then a few more, and then an entire wall of them stumbled behind. I held my breath as I quietly shoved the key in the deadbolt and slipped the door open. Daryl backed in behind me, his crossbow never leaving it’s aimed position.  
When the door shut, I checked through the peephole in the door. There were over a hundred of them, just stumbling down the street, and thankfully none of them had seen us slip inside the one story home. I locked the door, but scooted the couch across the hardwood floor in front of the door. Like it’d do any good, but hey, peace of mind. If there was such a thing anymore. I set my shotgun by the door, feeling a sense of nostalgia wash over me. Instead of comfort, it made me nauseous. The kitchen openly connected to the livingroom, where Daryl was standing and looking around like he’d just walked into a lion den. I rolled my eyes and took off for the kitchen sink. When the water sputtered for a few seconds then ran freely, I wasn’t disappointed with Dad’s decision to have our own well. What can I say, the one-legged war hero had some killer ideas.

“Y’all got water here?” Daryl cocked an eyebrow at me.  
“Off grid. Sort of.” I shrugged and leaned back against the island counter.   
“Make yourself at home, hillbilly.”  
“Better watch your mouth.” He snapped, but it was quiet since he took my advice and kicked off his boots. And for the first time in my entire damn life I saw someone put their feet up on my mom’s coffee table. I opened my mouth to protest, but reality smacks you in the face the hardest when what used to be normal comes swinging back around.   
“Jesus Christ, Daryl, at least go shower.” I looked at him, motioning to his blood covered shirt and jeans.

“Well who the hell’s responsible for this shit anyway. Fuck you, I ain’t showerin’.” He crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back on the velvet sofa. I grit my teeth.   
“Look, we’re stuck here for a minute, just go shower and get it over with. I’ll get some clothes out for you. Reasonable enough?” I was glaring at him like he was the sun and I was looking directly into it, with a hint more pissed off than a casual flash at the sun.  
“Nope.” He shrugged. It didn’t take me long to figure he was just pushing my buttons. 

I shook my head, un-fucking-believable how unreasonable the last people on earth could be. Then again I guess that’s what kept us here so far. I yanked open a cabinet. Not just any cabinet; The liquor cabinet. Stocked as always. I was pretty sure my eyes were glittering when I pulled half a bottle of Jack off the shelf. 

“If you aren’t going to enjoy a hot shower, I sure a hell am.” I shut the cabinet and his jaw dropped when his eyes connected with the booze. “And by make yourself at home, I meant after you shower. No shower? No liquor. Watch the door.” I said in a sing-song voice, and that man jumped up and bolted straight for the bathroom and slammed the door. 

All I could do was laugh. I set the whiskey down on the counter. I heard the shower kick on, and I went to my parents’ room. Though the house had been empty for months, it smelled like Mom. My eyes began to warm, but I was weeks past crying by now. I shuffled through Dad’s dresser, pulling out cargo jeans. In his side of their master closet hung a black shirt, sleeves sewn up, button up and by God it looked like it was made for Daryl. I pulled it off the hanger and folded it up with the jeans. I yawned, and my chest ached. Sleeping on concrete floors and hard truck beds was getting old. At least I’d have a bed tonight. Who knew where I’d be tomorrow. Alone in another garage, I’d bet. I gave two knocks on the bathroom door, opened it before I got permission, and set the clean clothes on the floor by the door. 

“There’s new clothes.” I called above the shower running and splattering water. I didn’t get an answer. I guess even a backwoods hick could enjoy some hot water now and then. 

I furrowed my eyebrows. Daryl’s attitude was already rubbing off on me. Not that being assaulted hadn’t changed my generous attitude, but since when did I think like a bully? 

“Don’t you drink all that Jack without me, woman!” He hollered from the bathroom.

Right, since I met Daryl Dixon.


End file.
